


I'm Looking Foward To Joining You, Finally

by interpol



Category: Cyberpunk 2077 (Video Game)
Genre: Begging, Blowjobs, Choking, Degradation, Dirty Talk, F/M, Masturbation, Naked Female Clothed Male, Name-Calling, Orgasm Denial, Vaginal Fingering, Wet Dream, boot kink for like 30 seconds, condescending ass Johnny, i need fucking help, pretty lighthearted tone, shoutout to Nine Inch Nails for the title
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-24
Updated: 2019-07-24
Packaged: 2020-07-12 17:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,611
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19950316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/interpol/pseuds/interpol
Summary: You've got a wet dream problem.





	I'm Looking Foward To Joining You, Finally

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shanjedi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanjedi/gifts).



> shoutout to shan and my keanu skank gang for making this bullshit with me  
> it's funny because the song I'm Looking Foward To Joining You, Finally this fic is named after has nothing to do with this  
> please enjoy.

_So_ **_fucking_ ** _good,_ you think, feeling your body rapidly rock back and forth, pleasure pumping through your veins with each thrust. It’s so sweet, like honey on your tongue, yet it always seems to leave far too quickly. His hand is wrapped firmly around your throat, not to choke, but to keep you firmly in place as he fucks you hard on the sort-of-dirty mattress on the floor of your sort-of-dirty apartment. Not like the environment matters; all that matters it this wonderful moment you were having, getting a fucking you _need_.

Jolting awake in a cold sweat, your clothes cling to your body, your blanket is tangled awkwardly around you, and a funny nausea begins to infect your whole body. You shoot up like a rocket, confused, embarrassed, and turned on all at once. Glancing panickedly around your apartment, your embarrassment morphs into mortification at the entire situation. Johnny’s in your head. Johnny knows what’s going on, what you’re thinking, and nothing you dream or do can escape him.

You devise your plan of action: swallow thickly, take in a few deep, intense breaths, and lie back down. Peeling your blanket totally off you, you feel disgusted - the cold sweat made everything stick to you in one of the worst ways known to man, and you’d rather not feel any dirtier than you do right now. You try to reason with yourself in an attempt to slow your pulse: maybe he doesn’t see your dreams - they’re like some kind of liminal space he has no access to, maybe he knows everything that went on and he’s going to give you hell for it, maybe this is just a fluke, maybe maybe maybe. Fuck it. “Deal with it the morning” is the best philosophy right now, and you pray that you don’t dream again of the dirty mattress you sleep on or of honey, or of the perpetual rocking reminding you of the ocean - what a _romantic_ way to think of it.

Realistically, it was a hedonistic, rough fuck.

* * *

When you see him the following day, he is… normal. Disaffected. He does not make any allusions to dirty mattresses or honey, which is a very faint relief. Perhaps you were right: he can’t see into the liminal space known as your dreamworld. It’s not much, but it helps you breathe a bit easier when all you’ve felt is mortification. But the masochist in you wants to have more dreams like that, hungry for the rush of his hands, his mouth, his cock - hungry for him, _all_ of him. The normal(?) part of you, however, is still reeling and cringing in embarrassment at the entire ordeal. Since you’re ever the optimist, a part of you is Absolutely Fucking Sure that he knows of your filthy desires and is waiting for the perfect opportunity to taunt you about it. You lean towards your "optimism" and try to be extra-cautious, like he’s a bomb ready to go off. He doesn’t seem to notice, since you only act that way a little bit. After all, you’re not _that_ worried. Who are you kidding? You’re petrified, God help your poor stupid soul.

* * *

His fingers pump in and out of your cunt at the perfect rhythm, while his thumb rubs your clit, making you gasp and writhe under his hand. His chest is pressed against yours and his face is buried in your neck and he bites and sucks the sensitive skin, and you feel _owned._ It’s a nice feeling, to be owned by him, knowing he’s the one in charge, that he can take care of you and do it oh-so-perfectly well. On the brink, so very close, you open your mouth, ready to ask for his permission to cum.

It’s a very brutal moment when you wake up again. _Fuck,_ is all you can think. Well: you now know that this is definitely a Problem. And he’s probably aware of it. So, you decide to devise another genius plan, this time for when he inevitably confronts you about how desperate you are for him in all the right wrong ways: you’ll just play dumb. Say “Huh, well, I don’t remember my dreams. I don’t know what you’re talking about.” It’s a bullshit defense, you know it, and he probably knows it, too. But there isn’t much left that you can do - the whole situation feels almost overwhelming, like it’s too fucking much for you to deal with. All you can do is try to sidestep it in every single way that you can, and dodge the questions that will come up. But then again, maybe you’re overreacting.

You close your eyes and go back to sleep, blanket still on you - you didn’t break out into a cold sweat this time. Lucky you.

* * *

He does not interrogate, taunt, or look at you funny. You’re beginning to wonder if he genuinely _doesn’t_ know what’s going on. The whole “dreams as locked liminal spaces” thing may just be the reality of the situation. There’s a chance you have free reign over what you dream, whether it be about Johnny fucking you silly or him taking an ax and hacking people to pieces. He doesn’t see it. 

You’re still not all the way sure, though. He could be just playing the long con, lurking and waiting to see if the third time’s the charm and it finally, unequivocally solves the riddle of whether your wet dreams are reflections of how much you need him. Or, if it shows that it doesn’t have much to do with either of you, but rather these dreams are reflections of how you need to get laid really, really badly, and you’ll dream of some other person fucking you. The more you think of it, the latter idea is true - you just need to get laid. Something like that.

* * *

“You are _such_ a slut. It’s actually kind of impressive.”

Red in the face, you fidget somewhat as he looks down at you, leaning down just a tiny bit. “Unbelievable,” he declares, turning his head away from you for a second before looking back. “It’s incredible, how badly you need to be fucked.”

“Uh, I-”

“Don’t,” he snaps at you, turning and pacing the room. You’re still sitting on the dirty mattress, fully clothed, and feeling small in the best way possible. “I’ve heard everything I need to hear,” he says nonchalantly. There’s a pause.

“Alright, up, on your knees.”

You stare dumbly at him for a second, feeling paralyzed while he unzips and pulls his cock out. Unamused by this, he roughly grabs a fistful of your hair, forcing you up on your knees and you open your mouth so he can shove his cock down your throat. He lets out a loud groan of approval when you take him easily while you choke a bit and excitement bubbles inside you. “So good,” he declares, “so fucking good.”

This is getting fucking _boring._

Pacing around the apartment, looking much less cool than he did, you muse on your issues. The “naughty” factor is gone, but there’s still lingering paranoia. The past couple of days, you’ve dealt with each other as usual, but you can never shake the feeling that he Knows about your sleep antics. It follows you, like a ghost, and it’s not fun anymore - maybe it kind of was at first, when you felt like a schoolgirl. But you aren’t one - you are a person with feelings that are totally normal, right? _Right?_ And, fuck, you disliked those feelings and how dirty and lustful they made you, well, feel. But at the same time, it felt nice to have the same pleasant dreams played over and over again every single night, at least at that moment. 

It occurs to you that philosophizing is pointless. The morality of it or how it makes you feel is irrelevant, since you can’t control your dreams. You’ll just have to suck it up, and it’s probably for the best. Who gives a fuck what Johnny thinks about it, anyway? Well, okay, you do, a little bit. A lot a bit.

* * *

All bare skin and smiles, you glance up at him. He seems to loom over you, larger than ever before, dressed in his usual garb. He kneels and fondles you for a few moments before leaning in your ear to say something, but it comes out strange and empty, as if radio static had entered your ear, but you don’t question it. Hand snaking down ever-so-slowly, he pushes his fingers into you again, and you arch into his hand, preparing for another intense finish.

Another night, another fuck dream, although this one seems strangely off. Good. Hopefully, it’s a sign that your brain is cooling off from whatever high it’s been on where you feel the urge to pounce on dream-Johnny. Tonight is strange, though, since you feel a particularly harsh pounding in your cunt, which is… unusual. Sure, you always wake up horny - who wouldn’t? - but tonight seemed to be especially intense, perhaps because you’ve been having these dreams night after night with no release. You know for a fact that if you masturbate Johnny will know, and you weigh it all in your head for a moment.

Maybe this is all one big conspiracy. Maybe he wants you to fuck him, but he can’t tell you directly, so he keeps messing with your head so you have dreams about fucking him all the time. Maybe this is all some kind of weird test or torture put in place by him because he secretly loathes your guts. Or maybe - just maybe - you are a lunatic who is looking far too deep into the world of dreams and is expecting answers where you clearly won’t find any.

Whatever. If he doesn’t like you masturbating, he can fuck off.

So you masturbate. It’s nothing insanely special or exciting - the feeling of your fingers rubbing your cunt is a nice, familiar one, you’ve gotten a fair amount of practice at that - and you sink into your dirty mattress when it’s said and done, feeling relief creep over you. It’s not a wave, it’s more of a gentle rain, coming slowly and lightly. And then, you go back to sleep, into the black, endless ocean where you don’t see anything.

* * *

You’re on your dirty mattress once again, fully clothed, a light-airy-dreamy feeling coming over all of you, making you feel very serene. Johnny is there, of course, looming over you as always, and you quietly glance up at him.

“I’m a little offended,” he says, facing towards you, but you can’t tell where he’s actually looking- he’s still got his sunglasses on.

“Huh?” Your voice is incredibly soft and concerned.

“All this time,” he begins, slowly pacing back and forth in front of you, “and all these dreams. You don’t think I can do better?”

"What?" The question comes out too loudly, as if your volume button is broken.

“You heard me.” He’s still pacing slowly, but he stops and turns your way to look at you (you think). “All these lovely dreams you have about me fucking you and _that’s_ how good you think I am?”

That fucking asshole knew you were going through this, and didn’t say or do anything. You open your mouth to defend yourself, but he stops you.

“I can do much better. I fuck better than these cute little ideas you’ve dreamt up, but I don’t think you realize that. For starters, if I was pounding that messy little cunt of yours, I’d actually, you know, _talk_ to you. But, to be fair, I _would_ have my hand around your throat.”

At this point, you are incredibly red, feeling several emotions go through you at once. Scouring your brain for a response, you find yourself empty-handed - you had nothing to say for yourself.

There’s a moment where he just stares at you, and you shift uncomfortably, trying to find any kind of words. 

“Why didn’t you say anything?” The question is genuinely curious, and your voice is soft again.

“I wanted to see how far it would go,” he says nonchalantly, turning his head to glance to the side before looking in your direction again. “It went pretty far - you _are_ a slut. Thanks for the show last night, by the way. It wasn’t bad at all.”

“Uh, you’re welcome?”

He doesn’t say anything and moves towards you, slowly. “On your back,” he commands, and you comply immediately, practically on instinct.

He finally reaches you, lifts his foot, and plants it firmly on your sternum, the fabric of your shirt the only thing separating the bottom of his thick black boots from your skin. “You really thought you could get away with it. You _really_ thought I wouldn’t know you were constantly dreaming about fucking me.”

He presses down a bit more, and you struggle to get the words out - but you get them out. “I thought it was you,” you whisper, a bit of a wheeze coming out. “That you were fucking with my hea-”

“Oh no, no, no. That was all you,” he says, still nonchalant, applying even more pressure, causing you to become ever-so-slightly afraid. “I had nothing to do with it, but it’s fine. There’s nothing wrong with being a whore.”

You don’t say anything once more - you’re so in shock, you hardly believe it’s happening this way. But somehow, you know it’s him. It’s an innate feeling, like the dream-him was an off-brand version and seeing the genuine article is undeniably different.

He takes a step back and pulls off his sunglasses, and you can see his eyes are staring directly at you for sure this time.

“Strip.”

You hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do, but you realize this is _everything_ you could’ve asked for, so you obey. It’s a quick process, since you’re not wearing a lot of clothing to begin with. Once you finish, he eyes you up and down, seemingly approving of what he sees before getting down and crawling on the bed with you, straddling your hips. The sensation of his weight on top of you is a unique one. While he leans over, you reach up and try to take his vest off, but he smacks your hand away using your metal one and you let out a hiss of pain and wonder if _that_ was necessary. “That is _not_ how we’re doing this. Understand?”

You nod, rather meekly.

“Good.”

He leans down and slams his lips roughly against yours, tongue plunging into your mouth and exploring. A little gasp of yours escapes into the kiss, and for a few seconds, the two of you make out while you let out little noises the entire time. It ends as quickly as it begins and he pulls away, using the non-metallic hand to grab at your breast. He gently tugs at your nipple, making you let out a high-pitched whine. Pleased with this response, he goes towards your neck, sucking and biting as he did in the previous dreams you had, and you relax and lean back to he can get a better shot.

A single, cold, metallic digit probes at your cunt, seemingly out of the blue, making you jump a little. You relax quickly though and exhale sharply, shutting your eyes and trying to lose yourself in the sensation. His voice is low in your ear, surprising you and making your eyes shoot open. “Absolutely soaking wet. Why am I not surprised at all? It’s _exactly_ what I’d expect from a slut like you.” His fingers curl in the right way and his thumb moves up to rub your clit, heightening the sensation. Moaning a bit louder know, you arch your back, feeling your breasts push against his chest. It’s a strange sensation, but you find a unique pleasure in it. Looking up at his face, he’s got a smile that reminds you of an old slasher movie villain. He seems quite happy to finally fuck you like you’ve wanted in your dreams. It makes sense, and despite the smug aura coming off of him, you can’t complain. He’s _literally_ giving you what you’ve dreamed of.

He abruptly pulls his fingers out of you, making you let out another whine of dismay. Laughing at your disapproval, he puts his fingers up to your lips, and he doesn’t even have to say anything - you lick his fingers clean, tasting the mixture of your juices and metal. Withdrawing from your mouth, he reaches down to unzip his pants and pull out his cock, and you lie back and just wait for him.

He pulls your legs open and places his hands on your hips with enough pressure to bruise. While he’s pushing his cock into you, you moan a little too loudly, which you know must amuse the hell out of him, but you’re too lost in the sensation to care. Wasting no time, he immediately begins pounding you so fast it practically makes you dizzy and leans down to growl into your ear.

“For all the shit I said, I do appreciate the sentiment. I’ll fuck you any way you want, you know, because I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time. I think you’ve been wanting this a while too, haven’t you? Yeah? That’s good. Don’t you just love the feeling of my cock inside you? I bet you do. It’s nice to know I always have somewhere to go when I need a nice fuck.”

You can't think of a reply; you're just so excited and exhilarated all you can do is moan and nod enthusiastically at his words, while he leans down towards your neck again, leaving more bites - perhaps it's a subconscious thing for him to mark you as his.

After some more bites, he wraps his metallic hand around your throat and applies enough pressure to choke, heightening the sensation even more.

“This is important,” he breathes in your ear, “I need you to tell me when you’re going to cum, okay, slut?”

You nod, but for whatever reason, he doesn’t like that. “Answer me with _words_ , idiot.”

“Yes,” you rasp out, trying to just focus on the sensation. Not quite there yet, you get a lot closer to orgasm when his hand reaches down to rub your clit.

"I-I'm gonna cum," you gasp out, writhing a bit - it's an assault on nearly all of your senses, almost too much to handle.

And he fucking _stops._ Pulling out completely, he leans back on his heels and strokes his cock absentmindedly.

A little noise of confusion escapes your lips before you sit up slightly, looking at him. “Why’d you stop?”  
“You need to learn how to be patient.”

Sighing, you reach down to rub your cunt, but he smacks your hand away again. “Don’t. I control your orgasms now.”

Shuddering a bit, you ask, “Can you at least keep fucking me?”

“Not until you beg.”

Whimpering, you look at him and begin to plead, “Please fuck me again, please? Pretty please?” He laughs a bit, but slides back in and you joyfully cry out as he resumes, same speed and roughness as before. “Remember, when you’re ready to cum, you _need_ to tell me.” The statement doesn’t need a real response.

Unsurprisingly, the rough fucking and clit-rubbing brings you close again, so you inform him (rather quietly) that you’re about to come, and he stops. Again.

“Come on!” you whine like a petulant child, “what do I do this time?”

“I want you to explain something to me: _why_ should you be allowed to cum?”

There’s a moment where your brain freezes up on what to say or do, but ideas begin to rattle around in your head and you come up with a seemingly reasonable point. “I’ve done everything you’ve asked without question,” you squeak.

“Such as…?”

“When you asked me to strip, I stripped, and you didn’t even have to _tell_ me to clean your fingers off.” The words come out quick, almost panicked, and you pray to God he’ll listen and let you cum. It felt like you were going to die if he didn’t.

There’s a moment where he stops stroking himself and seems to mull it over, and he nods. “You’re right,” he says in a calm, even tone of voice before slamming back into your cunt. It feels better than anything else this world can offer, and you squeeze your muscles around him, eyes rolling back when he resumes rubbing your clit. “So _fucking_ good,” he growls into your ear, and you can only moan in response. “I’m gonna cum,” you politely inform him, and he merely smiles at you. “Go ahead and cum.”

Finally, you cum, clenching tightly around him and feeling relief wash over you - this time in a wave. Knowing your frustrations were finally put to rest was one of the best moments of your life.

He cums shortly afterward, grunting and growling in his own, interesting manner before flooding your cunt, making you let out a gasp of pleasure from the feeling. Quickly getting off of you and lying beside you, he begins to stroke your cheek softly with a single, metal finger, and you wake up. Not in a cold sweat or too early - just relaxed and content.

Seeing him that day in the Real World, you smile at him. He boldly declares, “I think that was good for the both of us, samurai.”

“Sure it was.”

That night, you don’t dream of anything, but it’s a positive thing - the silence is peaceful.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm never writing ever again


End file.
